Tantivy
by ScarletCeylon
Summary: Oh, where does the time go? A drabble fic series centered on the God of Mischief. And the bag of cats that is his mind.
1. Tantivy

**Tantivy**

Oh, where does the time go? A drabble fic series centered of the God of Mischief. And the bag of cats that is his mind. Daily writing challenge. Can be read out of sequence.

* * *

 **Tantivy**

Sometimes, he would look at his hands and wonder at how they used to be so small. How they used to cling to his mother's skirts and tangle in red velvet capes. How his small, chubby fingers clung to the smooth stones he'd skipped across the reflecting ponds as if they were precious treasures.

How did they come to be so big, to spread so wide? With long, slender fingers to clutch tightly to the grimy leather grip of his knives and stitch spells to darken skies and twist words?

He had lived well over a millennia. With luck (or perhaps with none), he would likely see several more. But it seemed strange that time crept along forever when he was young and brilliant, but screamed by so fast after he fell.

The world slipped through his fingers like sand. Love and light and warmth along with it.

He was careening and he could not stop.

* * *

Author's note: Short and sweet. This whole string of ficlets is written in various styles and will trend more towards prose. It won't necessarily be grammatically correct. On purpose.

Ceylon~


	2. Tapestry

**Tantivy**

* * *

 **2: Tapestry**

He had wandered for hours beneath the leafy canopies of the garden, shuffling solemnly amidst the crests of fallen leaves and golden shafts of late afternoon sunlight. He picked discerningly among the leaves, painted in shades of gold and red and russet, lifting them to the light and peering through their dry old skins to view their bones as best he could.

He felt at home there, drifting listlessly among the legs of giants, bathing shamelessly in the pools of cool autumn shade. He felt quiet, quick, strange. Perceptive. He felt…as if he were more, somehow. He played with the fantasy that Asgard's least favored son became Asgard's most clever king. It was a sweet little thought, but too far-fetched to ever be true.

How funny was it that his family be flaxen-crowned and full of heart, to be bright and luminous, full of verve and honor while he stood as their stark antithesis? He, whose hair was an eddy of dark brambles and whose soul spoke of cowardice! He, who was compelled to linger betwixt the snarl of roots and the periphery of thought! How could he possibly have sprung from the same blood as that of glowing, exalted kings?

If one were to pick him up and hold him to the sun, would they see the same in him as the others?

* * *

Author Note: Felt motivated, did two.

Ceylon~


	3. Verdant

**Tantivy**

* * *

3\. Verdant

His chest heaved as he crashed through the tall grasses and loped over the lazy, rolling hills beyond the stark castle walls. He smelled the bright aroma of the salt grass and the wildflowers mingling with distant wood smoke as he tore down the well-loved paths of his childhood.

Thor thundered through the brush mere steps behind him. Loki could hear the rumbling heartbeat of his brother as they flew.

Thor picked up speed coming down the slope and crashed into his brother with a triumphant squeal. They rolled the rest of the way through the wild oats in a tangle of arms, legs, and giggles. As they came to a stop they lay side by side basking beneath the high summer sun, the light filtering through the grasses and reeds. He reveled in the smell of the musty earth as he watched the dragonflies dance overhead and the grasshoppers leap to the skies.

He could not help but think as he lay next to his brother that this must be what freedom feels like.

* * *

Author note: Prompt: Colors.

Ceylon~


	4. Skein

**Tantivy**

* * *

 **4: Skein**

 _I am a razor_ , he thinks.

He is sharp, he is keen. He flies true, cuts swiftly, buries deeply.

 _I am help and harm, I am defense and attack,_ he thinks as he picks at his sleeve, pulling at the threads of his shirt. His dirty fingernails have worried this snag so often that it simply comes undone. _Oh, how I love undoing_ , he grouses as he follows his threads around wrists and threads and souls. He pulls and pulls and _pulls_ as he follows the thread deeper, deeper than anyone has ever gone.

 _I am intrepid, I am swift, I am bite and sting and claw and fang and—_

He comes to himself then. He looks down at his arm and remembers what he is. Where he is. How he came to be what he is now and where he is going.

What he is left with is a dingy cloud of coarse cotton thread and half a sleeve.

…

 _I am undone_

* * *

Authors note: did it again.

Ceylon~


	5. Buttress

**Tantivy**

* * *

 **5: Buttress**

He ran ripe with glee as he sat tall and proud and iron-willed upon his throne, a shining crown gleaming proudly astride his dark cloud of locks. His cape poured decadently over the angles of the divine seat and flowed over the staircase at his feet. His skin caught the amber of the sunlight and glowed with _power_ and _purpose._

He was the king. The shining king over treasured Asgard.

He could hear the roaring adulation of the crowd beneath and about him, slavering in their love of him. He reigned with golden Gungnir in his grip and the world nestled in his other palm, feeling in his heart at that glorious moment that he could do no wrong.

He wrapped that warmth around his shoulders like a precious blanket and clung to that fervor desperately as the crowds disappeared into hissing smoke and his crown faded from his head. He chanted it in his heart even when the cape draped upon his shoulders roughened to coarse linen and his bare feet grew cold in his lonely palace of one.

* * *

Ceylon~


	6. Asylum

**Tantivy**

 _ **6\. Asylum**_

His heart thundered in his chest as he plummeted through the darkness, all things familiar slipping away from him as he dipped below, below, below. Plucked by gravity. Everything he knows, familiar, _gone_. Getting smaller and smaller as The Void's cold black maw opens wide to consume him. His heart lurches inside even as no wind whistles through his hair. His stomach feels tight and he thinks he can't breathe and he feels _pain tingling in his skin waiting to explode and become real_ _ **and he wonders how much further down he can fall until-!**_

His eyes fly open as his heart gallops. Lightning's staccato flash burns through the night sky and he hears the sound of rainwater flowing over the roof above his head, dripping into a forgotten tin cup on the balcony.

He is ensconced in his older brother's warm arms as he is soothed back to sleep, dreaming of elysian fields.

He is seven years of age, and this is the safest cage that he's ever known.

* * *

Oops. Forgot to write over the break.


	7. Florid

**Tantivy**

 **7: Florid**

He was uncomfortable.

He felt uncomfortable all the way down to his bones; he wished he could step out of his own skin. The air was stifling, sitting wet and heavy in his lungs as he struggled to push it out and pull it back in. For survival's sake (he shouldn't even really be dwelling on that, given how apathetic he was about that right now).

Summer heat smothered the town under a breezeless blanket. His dark hair burned whenever he crossed into the light of the golden blaze above. He felt heat pour out of his cheeks , half expecting the glass of water he cradled in his shaking hands to boil and slosh, to burn his pale hands.

He braved the melting swelter for a minute as he watched Thor and Sif dance about on the green below his window, charging and parrying with their practice swords. Thor was growing ever taller and broader by the day, Sif herself changing seemingly every time he saw her. They fought in the spirit of friendliness, but he could see the growing power in every controlled sweep, in every whistle of air as the blunted swords sliced through the heat. He couldn't help but stew and wilt in his own envy.

His shoulders felt heavy; his blanket felt as if it were woven from steel mail. He was ever reed thin and sick, weaker than a spring lamb when compared to his brother, it seemed. He prickled with embarrassment if he ever stood side by side with his brother or their friends. He felt lesser. Smaller. He should stop thinking about this. It was making him upset. He was better than this.

If it were even possible, he burned even hotter with jealousy as he turned from his perch to slink back into the shadows, his cough rattling through his chest as he struggled to get enough air. He fell into the dark pit of slumber the second his head hit his pillow.

All he could dream of was the color red.


	8. Anachronistic

**Tantivy**

8: Anachronistic

Why was it that every time he looked at himself, he had the feeling he was looking at a relic of the past?

Dirty, poorly used, forgotten?

It mattered not how he looked on the outside, he was filthy on the inside, and _that_ he could never wring or scrub away. And that dun that had stuck to his soul for centuries remained unnamed for as long as he could remember.

He's learned a few things about the world since the days of his wide-eyed youth. He's learned a few things about himself since those days, too.

The pull of the Void was his rebirth. The whisper of The Other was his gospel. The blue blush of his skin and the reveal of his heritage was the miracle that had made all of those wonders possible.

It was odd, to finally be able to put to words a curious sensation he had long been unable to place. An inherent wrongness of person and place. Paradoxically, it seemed right, like this great truth of the universe had at last been discovered and everything in the world now made sense.

Only now, in the solitude of this bright and empty cage in the depths of Asgard (this juxtaposition does not help his madness) did he come to fully appreciate the hidden shadows of the not-quite-smiles of his youth. Only now has he learned to appreciate the almost clinical distaste that Thor's friends had long borne for him, poorly cloaked by their admiration for his greater sibling. That nearly imperceptible shade that colors the eyes of nearly everyone he meets before they even hear him speak.

He can see their ulterior motives in the reflection of their own eyes.

His own eyes are clear. He wears his intent on his sleeve.

Is it strange that for all of his newly-gifted sight, he cannot glimpse a way forward?


	9. Reverence

**Tantivy**

* * *

 **Reverence**

His father sat upon his gleaming throne, his shoulders squared and his back ramrod straight, the gold and the silver interwoven in his beard catching the rays of the sun beaming in out of the western windows. His large hands clasped his mighty spear in his grip, his armor burnished to a brilliant polish. He looked every inch the wise and peerlessly powerful monarch he was.

His cheekbones masked his eyes in shadow and he peered down from on high at his slighter second son.

He spoke nary a word.

He just watched him like one might study a mite. Clinical. Judgmental.

He was flanked by rows of his shining Einherjar, each broad and bright and honorable. Their strength fed on his strength; together they were an indomitable force of being packed into a room that didn't seem quite large enough to fit their presence. He felt the weight of their regard settle on his shoulders like a yoke.

Loki knelt before him, his dark head bowed and his clenched hand pressed painfully tight to his breastbone. His plain tunic was smudged with blood on its baggy sleeves, the body of a magpie lay prostrate before him, its wings furled outward.

"Loki," his father began, his voice deep, bold. It carried with it the weight of his omniscient power.

He peeked at his father through the curtain of his hair. He dared not bare his face.

He couldn't suppress the quivering of his heart beneath his weak ribs.

"There is a natural order to things, my son. Things are born. They live. They pass away. Such is life."

"Yes, Father."

"What you tried to do today, Loki… is _aberrancy_. You cannot simply interrupt in natural order for your wants. Certain things you can control. Others you must let be."

"But Father!" Loki pleaded. _I did nothing wrong!_

"Loki, I am still speaking. Temperance."

"I apologize, Father."

His father drew in a long-suffering breath and let it out slowly. Surely, he was ruminating about how difficult a child he was. How troublesome.

"Loki," he began again, more softly this time. "You are precocious. Curious. You have much potential. But I fear that your nature would lead you down paths best left unexplored. This is one such path. Devote yourself to your other studies, my son. They would serve you better. These arts are best left forgotten."

"I understand, Father," he mumbled lowly. He felt that if he could melt away into the floor, he would.

"You are dismissed, son. Return to your studies."

"Yes, Father."

* * *

He slunk out of the throne chamber, ambling slowly to one of the gardens. He lingered in the long shadows cast by the great stone pillars, his burden cradled in his hands.

He reached the landing a few minutes later and crafted a pyre of twigs and leaves. He nestled the wings within and wove a spell to set the nest aflame.

 _Where did I go wrong?_

This very bird had flown into the balcony railing this morning and fallen to this spot.

Loki had given it flight and life again, set it free.

He hadn't known that Odin had seen it. He hadn't known that Odin would so disapprove.

 _Aberrancy._

 _Wrought with my own hands. Wrought with my own mind. From where else would such horrors have sprung?_

He tried to smile, though the tears prickled at the backs of his eyes.

 _Why can't I be a good son?_

* * *

Ceylon likes to talk to people. Don't be afraid to speak up! These stories are all about interpretation and perception. What's yours?


	10. Serendipity

**Tantivy**

Serendipity

* * *

His mouth _gushed_ and he was so full of _want_.

His slim fingers stretched out toward their treasured prize. His fingers, willowy and shaky with youth itched to grasp their temptation.

He wobbled as he perched atop Thor's shoulders, both straining to reach the counter-top. The prize: a glistening glazed pie complete with an intricately braided crust and a mountain of juicy, plump berries. A pillowy pile of fresh honeycream had been dolloped in the center of the pie. It was to be the dessert for the royal family's private dinner that night.

"Not close enough, Thor! A little more, a little more!"

"I'm trying, Loki! Stop being so bossy!"

"Almost…almost…"

His fingertip scratched the tin of the pie plate, but could not find purchase.

"So close! A little more, Thor!"

"Hold on, Loki!"

Thor hefted his brother higher with a sudden surge of his childish might. He glowed with victory, expecting the prize to be won. He could almost taste it now…

But what he hadn't expected was for Loki to over-correct during the sudden boost and plant face-first in the middle of the thing. It was surprisingly graceless for Loki, flailing arms and all.

" _Lo-kiiiii_ ," Thor groaned. They were dead. To be caught for sure. "You ruined it."

"Oh! I'm sorry, Thor!"

Loki grabbed the smashed remains and pulled it off the counter-top with him, hoping to at least share the remains of the once-glorious dessert as a peace offering.

However miffed Thor may have been, he couldn't hold on to that anger for long. His brother's face, covered in a thick smattering of honeycream, resembled a smiling cloud. He couldn't be too mad at his silly brother, after all. He reached out and plucked a fresh, plump strawberry from the ruined mess, scooped a dollop of the sweet, fluffy cream off of his brother's face, and popped it in his mouth.

Loki giggled as Thor swiped the berry on his mess of a face. Thor loved him; he couldn't hate him for long. No matter how much he messed stuff up, he knew Thor would always forgive him.

He selected one of his own, dabbed it in the sweet cream and savored the fresh burst of sweetness. There were no words to describe the happiness that bubbled through him when he had moments like this with his brother. They were thick as thieves and would love each other forever. These berries were what brotherhood _tasted_ like.

The head chef found the two of them a few minutes later, both a mess of confection and mischief, pleased as punch. They passed the evidence between them, not a lick of shame to be found. Even as they scrubbed the floors and wrung the rags dry, even as their mother palmed her face with exasperation, they preened in their success.

Many years would pass, but never would either of them forget that far-off day.

* * *

Ceylon wants strawberry pie now.

Review, be chatty! Ceylon likes talking to people! How do you interpret this chapter?


	11. Singularity

**Tantivy**

 _ **Singularity**_

* * *

 _i can see forever_

His eyes fluttered about beneath his lashes, beneath the frozen humors of his eyes. They traced the trails of twilight and sparkle of stars as he hung suspended in time.

He had distant memories of something, before. He didn't even know what it was that he remembered, just that he was somewhere other than this before. His mouth had opened long ago to take a breath that would never begin and never end as flecks of stardust streamed by on winds that he could not feel.

 _i can see the universe_

 _i taste stars_

 _the galaxy turns and turns and turns and i turn with it_

He was swimming forever in tides of ancient fire and even older frost, drowning without death. Living in absence of life. He bobbed along on magnetic pulses as worlds drifted by on stellar streams. Sometimes he would think, when he could remember what words were. Sometimes he would walk away from his prison in spirit and be free. Most times, he didn't know where, when, or what he was. Existence had become a question without answers or concepts. The only sounds he heard were the relentless pounding of his own heart in his ears, going on and on without breath to fuel its fire or nourishment to sustain it. He floated through billows of burning gases without feeling the flames.

He ached to feel, to see, to be, to live. Or not. He also ached to stop. He didn't know which he wanted more. But he wanted something that was not this. He wanted to clip the string that Yggdrasil had used to hold him fast and ride destiny and gravity again. To death or life, whichever he may meet.

Inertia was the cruelest of curses.

Until that time, he would remain here. With little else to occupy his mind except _everything._

 _i have become more (less?) than I ever have been_

 _i am forever_

…

 _but what is i?_

* * *

 _Off of the deep end! Down, down into the depths!_

Ceylon loves talking to people. What is your interpretation?


	12. Arid

**Tantivy**

 _ **Arid**_

* * *

His tongue tasted like ash.

His eyes glazed over as he stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles above him. To see if any more had appeared since yesterday. But he couldn't remember how many there were yesterday, so he'd count them again just to be sure.

He was so tired, but all he ever did was sleep. Sleep was an opiate and he was its slave. Every moment he kept his eyes open was a moment he spent resisting his addictions. One had to take victories where they could find them, especially since he had so little to lose.

Food no longer had taste if it was served on these trays. Laughter no longer had ring when it echoed in these chambers. Life no longer had color if it was lived within these walls. He would dream of birds taking flight and empty vistas with open skies. He fell from windows with different eyes upon every sleep. He would fly free until he surfaced from beneath that peaceful sea and he would awaken here, just as caged as ever.

He missed those moments of blissful emptiness, just as much as he missed the life he once had. The life he'd had before he died and became this other person with wild eyes and the same strange face. Dreams had been where he could waltz through the sky, or walk in his own old shoes, but such simple pleasures changed when they became polluted.

They were different, now. He would drip tar wherever he walked and his face was a mask. He would fall and fall, and never hit the ground. At some point in every dream, he would see a smattering of familiar stars and breath in nebulae and awaken bathed in the cold sweat of fear. His last refuge, gone.

But his sleeplessness was not merely a punishment. It had granted him gains that he would never have dreamed of. He had recently discovered his _new_ sight. He was omniscient now in ways he could have never comprehended. Odin was wrong. He _was_ a god.

"Prince Loki. You must eat," a voice whispered on the edge of his consciousness. He refused the thought as soon as it entered his mind. Ghosts, all of them! He had no need for _sustenance_. For _rest_. His distance, his euphoria, felt _right_ as he gazed unseeingly at everything around him. He smiled without purpose. He felt more whole and well now than he had felt in a long time.

His tray sat beside his pallet, untouched.

So it has been for nine days.

* * *

What an issues baby he is!

Interpretations! Questions? Comments?


	13. Tranquility

**Tantivy**

* * *

 **Tranquility**

If it were ever possible to define the word _peace_ as a feeling, it would be this.

It would be the warm swaddle of fleece-lined blankets and the smell of old books.

The scrape of thin parchment as pages turn, the smooth slide of the pages as they rub together.

The smell of ink and the warm flicker of candlelight filtered through his blown glass lantern.

His brother snoring softly at his side as the faraway din of the gathering hall crept through the walls.

The smell of the old ink mixing with the scent of his mulled cider and that quiet little joy unfurling in his breast at the moving birds trapped within his pages.

The cool autumn breeze licking at his draperies as they wafted gently to the ring of his wind chimes.

His mother's lilting voice as she embellished the story they read together, her dulcet tones weaving tales fantastical and spectacular.

His father, quiet and stalwart, shrouded in shadows as he watched over his brood. Whose face was stern, but watched with eyes that were warm and welcoming.

All of those things…that would be how he would define _peace_. Words can be distorted, but this feeling was pure truth as words could never tell it. While circumstances may have changed its' color, that happiness was no fiction.

If he never knew _peace_ again, he would at least have that feeling to cling to in his heart. It did not matter how _He_ beat him down and suppressed him, stripped him down to the barest nothing, or molded him into a weapon of destruction. It did not matter if he was slain and his ashes scattered to dust the starpaths of the sky with no one to know his fate. That feeling had existed in him once and would flicker in his soul forever, no matter how much pain it brought him. As he bled and cried and screamed, he would cup that flicker in the palm of his hand and take comfort in the fact that there once was a time where he had been happy. There once was a time where he had been loved. That little feeling was _everything._

He felt the trace of a cold finger on his face and flinched at a sudden physical surge of sensation that drove him to his knees. Nostalgia tore at his heart and brought bile to his throat as he heaved.

The world grayed out into colorless mist and he felt himself ebbing away on an insensate tide.

 _I miss you_

 _All of you_

* * *

Who do you think "He" is? Is it Odin? Thanos? Neither? Both? All of the above—it's whoever you need it to be!

Think about connotations for the word _tranquility_.


End file.
